Forgoing the Memory
by Pale Rider
Summary: Severus Snape never hated James Potter. He doesn't hate Harry either, and therein lies the problem...


**Warning!** This story includes content that many readers will find disturbing. Specifically, an adult seriously considers, fantasizes about, and ultimately rejects having sex with a pre-pubescent child. The author does not condone sexual acts of this kind, and requests that any readers who _do_ condone them kindly check themselves into a mental institution at the first opportunity. _Do not read this story if you know it will offend you!_

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**Forgoing the Memory**

  
  


The crisis could no longer be averted, Severus realized as he spun around to face the first-year Potions class. He had felt it coming for months, ever since the staff meeting at the beginning of summer to discuss the new students. Harry Potter's name had started a lively conversation, yet Severus had only sat in shocked silence. His reputation for being taciturn had covered his reaction then, but Severus had worried that he could not hide his response forever. 

The name alone brought back more memories than Snape honestly believed he'd possessed. He recalled the midnight hours spent with James, bodies curled together in secret passageways and empty classrooms, taking their first, faltering steps into manhood. He remembered the daylight hours, too, when they hid their socially unacceptable relationship from family, friends, and enemies alike by frequent, public declarations of mutual hatred. They had struggled to keep from smiling during their verbal sparring matches, and had given up on physical conflict altogether when a wrestling bout had ended in a barely-disguised mutual orgasm. 

James and Severus had been lovers from the moment they walked into the Great Hall together their first night at Hogwarts, clasped hands surreptitiously hidden between the folds of their robes. It was to ensure James' safety that Severus had taken the risk of becoming Dumbledore's spy, and to protect Severus that James had forced Voldemort to use _Avada Kedavra_, rather than risk the possibility of revealing his lover's true role under _Cruciatus_ torture. 

The pain of that sacrifice still throbbed in Severus' heart, despite the passing of a decade. Not a night went by that Severus did not curse himself for allowing James to trust that bastard Black. The ill-chosen secret-keeper had ruined Severus' life, taking away the two most important of his few true friends—James and Lily. She had helped them from the beginning, being involved in a similarly illicit tryst of her own. Lily had married James to cover both their relationships, and had even gone so far as to bear him a son to satisfy the demands of the elder Potters. 

A son, and that was the problem. Severus had seen Harry only once or twice, for he never took the risk of visiting Godric's Hollow. James had barely discussed the infant other than to express his love for the child—their time together was at a premium, and both Severus and James had other things on their minds. Aside from what little information Albus had revealed, Severus knew nothing about the boy, and had no idea what to expect. 

He had expected danger, to some extent. Severus knew better than anyone how many Death Eaters had escaped the inept prosecution of the Ministry, and he knew that Malfoy would have no qualms about employing his rat-faced son as a spy. Yet Severus doubted that he would be able to handle anyone that reminded him of James callously, especially a boy as wounded as Albus indicated Harry was. How could Severus avoid treating the son of his lover with affection? Behaving kindly towards the Boy Who Lived, however, would be sure to draw the suspicion of the remaining Death Eaters, and eventually the wrath of whatever remained of Voldemort himself. 

Severus had, uncharacteristically, dithered the summer away. Rather than steeling himself against his emotions, he wallowed in his memories of James. He could have spent the time preparing a way to privately shower the boy affection while publicly expressing disdain. Instead, he wasted his hours praying that the boy would more resemble his mother. If Harry had inherited Lily's rich red hair, Severus might even be able to think of him as another Weasley—lord knew an extra one would barely be noticed. 

The Sorting Ceremony had shattered those hopes. For a moment Severus had wondered whether he'd gone mad, imagining James reincarnated. Only the flash of those unnaturally green eyes differentiated the boy from his father. The rest had all been identical, from the rumpled hair to the thin face and its button nose. Even the eyes bore traces of James in their full, almost feminine lashes. Harry did not move like James—he had none of his father's confidence or grace—but the determined steps and bright smile had crossed the generations. 

The crisis had almost come then, as Severus looked at Harry and saw James, saw his lover returned after so many years. It had taken every bit of willpower Severus had to keep from leaving the table and sweeping the pretty, too-thin boy into his arms, and it had been almost impossible to tear his eyes away from James' doppelganger. Only when the boy at last sensed the Potions Master's gaze on him had Severus managed to turn away, scowling in disgust at his own weakness. For Harry had not only reawakened Severus' memories of happy times with his lover, he had also breathed new life into a part of Severus that only James had inspired before. By the end of the night, Severus had wanted to do far more than simply hug the boy. 

Severus had fruitlessly berated himself that night as he made his way back to his quarters. _Harry is only a child,_ he reminded himself, _and you are a full-grown man._ Yet his darker side whispered to him of James, filled his mind with images of soft cherry lips and hardened pink nipples and pale, hairless thighs. _We were both children then,_ Severus told himself, _We were equal. This is different... wrong..._ Yet he could not keep himself from watching the boy the next morning at breakfast, staring at the messy black hair and wondering if Harry's breath would catch in his throat like James' had when he came. 

And now, as the words of his customary introductory speech tumbled automatically from his lips, Severus Snape acknowledged the truth. He would never be able to resist the temptation that Harry posed. Severus had enough faith in his moral character to know he would never rape the boy, but as he stood fighting to tear his eyes away from Harry's beautiful, thin face, Severus acknowledged that if the boy were to offer himself, he could never refuse. He could never deny himself the opportunity to be with his lover again. 

_You _must_ refuse,_ he told himself, _you must not take even more innocence from the poor child._ But in his mind's eye Severus saw the boy wearing the same ecstatic expression that James had during their first, fumbling explorations of each other's bodies, and knew that he was too weak. Even now, as he blathered meaninglessly about brewing fame and bottling glory, he had to fight constantly against the urge to cross the room and kiss Harry's ruby lips, to feel if they were soft like James' had been, to learn if they had the same taste. 

_And what if Harry comes to me?_ Severus wondered. From what Albus had said, Harry was certainly starved for affection; it would be only natural for him to seek love from a teacher... If Harry tried to seduce him, would Severus have the strength to push the boy away? Severus knew that he did not—he would be trapped, unable to escape the prison of his past. And it _would_ be about the past. Severus did not know Harry at all, certainly not enough to love him; he would be making love to a memory, the memory of the only person Severus truly _had_ loved. 

_I must make him hate me,_ Severus realized. It would be easy enough—most of the students disliked him anyway, and it would take only a little extra effort to create true hatred. It would make them both safe; if Harry hated him too much to approach him, then Severus could take care of the rest. He would never lay a finger on the boy. And yet Severus _wanted_ to touch Harry, to hear him gasp, to watch him twist in the throes of orgasm. He wanted to feel the softness and warmth of that porcelain-white skin, to bury his fingers in the thick, messy black hair... 

_It is not _Harry_ that you want,_ Severus told himself, _and if he comes to you for love, what _you_ have to offer will only destroy him._ Even now Severus could see how Harry hovered near the newest Weasley student, sitting much closer to the redhead than was usual for boys of his age, almost clinging to his newfound friend. Harry needed innocent love and tenderness to recuperate from the pain of the wretched childhood home Dumbledore had seen fit to cast him into, not the seething, lustful desires of a man four times his age. Severus could not heal anyone: he brewed the medicines well, but his hands could administer only poison. 

_I must make him hate me,_ Severus repeated in his mind, and knew it to be the truth. It would be so easy... just a little extra effort... 

"Mr. Potter," Severus spat, wishing he could brush the boy's hair back and kiss the smooth skin of his forehead, "our new _celebrity_..." 

**END**


End file.
